Yours expectantly
Oppressed People's Army
P.S. Sixteen trucks, P&Rs, Metro, Car Parks.
Return to Contents
* * *
Chapter Eight
8h59 am
The delayed train never arrived. Frederic listened carefully for the subsequent announcement.
"Dear passengers, we apologise for the delays. There are, at present, no metro trains available. For this reason, could we please ask you to make your way to the bus terminal at the north side of the building? Thank you."
Frederic gently took the pregnant woman's arm, and led her quickly up the steps. He wanted to avoid the rush of other commuters, but before they had reached the top, the crowd had surged past them. He looked at some of the faces of those who ran past. Many of them wore anxious expressions that showed the urgency they felt.
"What has our society made us?" he glanced at the pregnant woman. "A short delay, and we all start rushing about like headless chickens."
"It's not really a short delay. More like a long delay," she answered.
"Yes, you're right. But you're not going to tell me that everyone has a boss who will tolerate no tardiness and take it out of your salary. I mean, look at them." He pointed at the rapidly receding crowd. "You'd think they're running for their lives. And did you see their faces? All screwed up, sweat running down them, teeth gritted. And look at the way they bump and shove each other. Nothing else counts but their getting to work on time. Imagine yourself trying to get through that. You would have been knocked over, or worse--trampled. They're not human anymore. They've become a herd."
The pregnant woman nodded sadly. "I used to be like them, but since I've been carrying this," she placed a hand on her belly, "my attitudes have changed. Before, I liked crowds, but now, for the security of my child, I am wary of them. Have I thanked you for helping me today?"
Frederic humbly kept quiet.
"I don't know what I would have done without you. Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
"No. I think I should. Such altruism is so rare nowadays." She stopped to think for a second. "How come you're not running in that crowd? Joined in the herd mentality?"
Frederic laughed. "I learnt a long time ago that running will get you where you want to be quicker. But in what state? You get to your place of work out of breath, sweating and light-headed. After that, you need at least ten minutes to recover. The secret is to leave early and arrive early. That way, if you are delayed, you can still reach your destination on time. And more importantly, you arrive fresh and ready for a days work, not tired and jittery."
During their conversation they had drawn nearer to the bus terminal. The crowd was so thick that only the tops of the busses were visible. Frederic spotted an empty bench about thirty metres away, led his charge there, and began to help her to sit down.
"I think it's better we remain here until the crowd has thinned a bit."
She eased herself down onto the bench. "Yes. By the way, I don't know your name."
He sat down beside her and extended his hand. "Frederic Vandendriesch, at your service, ma'am"
He was surprised by the firmness of her grip. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Erica Staedler. Frederic, would you do me and my husband the honour of dining with us one evening?"
"Why, of course. On one condition, though."
Erica was surprised. "Yes?"
"I would like you to meet my wife. I think you would get on well with her."
"I'd be delighted."
Frederic retrieved a business card from his wallet, and wrote something on the back. "Here's our home number. Maybe sometime next week?"
"I'll have to see with my husband, but that sounds just great."
***
The TMC door clicked ominously. Although I couldn't hear anyone enter, I knew who it was. Just the man I needed to fob responsibility on. For once glad to have such an unsympathetic boss, I yelled for him. "Jacques!"
There was no way in the world I was going to take the responsibility for making a decision on this. The message from the OPA, whoever that was, seemed innocuous at first sight, just another crank call--we get about two a month--but the postscript was literally a bomb. They were the instigators of the mess we were in, and had just displayed their credentials.
Nys' lips moved silently as he read. He nearly fainted; the blood drained from his face, emphasising his freckles, and his eyes went in and out of focus several times before he got a hold of himself. He darted for a phone, and immediately requested an urgent meeting with the department head. It seemed like he relished responsibility on this as much as I did.
"I don't give a damn if he's talking to the King of Belgium." Obviously our head had given very clear instructions to his secretary about Nys. "I have to see him right now. If you don't put me through, I'm coming up there, and you'll be out of work. Put him on."
This apparently did the job, probably because Nys has never had the guts to menace anyone before, not even the cleaners. Must have surprised the secretary. Six and a half seconds later he had Lyens, the department head, on the line.
He read the message from the OPA back over the phone, and patiently waited for it to sink in. Taking the prolonged silence at the other end as a cue, he started babbling. I had difficulty understanding him, but it sounded like something to the effect that it was not his fault. The department head stopped him, and obviously reeled off a series of instructions, which Nys listened to before hanging up.
"Hugh, call the police." He headed for the door, then added, "I'll be in meeting room 1b for a crisis meeting with Lyens." With that, he left us.
***
The phone was ringing insistently. Maria stretched her hand out from the covers on the bed and pulled the phone underneath. She mumbled a greeting.
Suddenly she threw off the covers, swung her legs round to sit on the edge and listened intently to her correspondent.
"Yes, sir. I was going to come in at ten."
"I'm sorry. Your day has already started. We just received a call from the Transport Authority. They have a major traffic foul-up; the trains and metros are out."
"But that's nothing for us."
"No, but the terrorists who caused the chaos are."
"Terrorists? What are their demands?"
"They haven't said yet, they disclosed their presence by e-mail. In half an hour, the city authorities will receive a recorded message. Get over to the Transport Management Centre; it's just down the road from you."
"Yes, sir."
Maria replaced the phone. She paused for a minute, then shook her head from side to side. In the bathroom she splashed her face with water before quickly getting dressed with the clothes closest at hand: a new pair of black jeans and a navy blue sweater that were neatly folded over the back of a chair. Five minutes later, she closed her front door, and stepped out onto the street.
She turned around and stopped, surprised. The road in front of her flat was jam-packed with cars. Immobile cars with angry drivers at their wheels, by the looks of things. The cacophony of car hooters drowned out the noise of running engines and the clamour of shouting voices.
Maria hurriedly walked off. She didn't want any unpleasant arguments with unhappy drivers. Most people would probably have a hard time getting ready for work as quickly as Maria could. She had spent only five minutes between waking up and stepping onto the street. She was not a stranger to urgent phone calls in the morning that required immediate reactions. Her thoughts turned to what her boss had said.
She had been appointed as liaison between the police department and the famous anti-terrorist squads. She helped to pass information around, and co-ordinated both forces in any counter-terrorist action. She had become popular with the squads, and they had virtually adopted her as one of theirs. They appreciated the way she dealt with them, and felt that her competencies never went amiss in a crisis. She was the only 'regular' police officer to be regularly invited to the squads' social even
ts. Maria was often at barbecues and picnics, and was present, as well, for special training courses. She was only the second woman law enforcement officer in the city to have completed the strenuous anti-terrorist squads' infamous obstacle course.
When the new Bourgmestre had been re-elected, five months earlier, a new co-ordinator had been imposed to replace Maria. The anti-terrorist squads and the bomb disposal units had all flatly refused the new appointment. Finally, the Bourgmestre was forced to accede to their wishes, and Maria had been given her job back.
The Transport Authority reception area was crowded. Maria walked up and announced herself. The receptionist picked up a phone.
"Good morning, Sergeant, someone will be with you in a minute."
***
"Officer Depage?" Speaking in French, I shook hands with the police officer.
"Sergeant Maria Depage."
"Hugh Ryan. Traffic Controller. Pleased to meet you. I'll just make a temporary badge for you." I didn't have to. The receptionist handed me a new one with Sergeant Maria Depage written on it. She smiled at me. Obviously she had noticed the urgency in my voice, and prepared the badge for me in advance. This is one of the useful services of a receptionist that usually goes unnoticed.
"Thanks." I waved a hand at the door I had just come through.
"Sergeant Depage, this way please. Here's your badge. You'll need it to open these doors. Like so."
I swiped my badge through the slot, and opened the door to the TMC.
"By the way, we all speak English here. Just indicate to me when there's something you don't understand, and I'll translate for you."
In flawless English, without a trace of an accent, she answered, "Thank you for the offer, but there is really no need."
Startled, I stopped. Most Belgians speak other languages, but rarely as well as she did. As she had been following my lead, she pulled up beside me.
"Call me Maria, please. Sergeant Depage sounds so formal."
Despite the situation, it was hard to avoid noticing the sway of her hips, emphasised by her tight sweater, as she entered. The others were gaping, too. The TMC, essentially a male preserve--not intentionally, mind, it just happens to be that way--was rarely graced with distractions of that kind. We all needed something more pleasant to think about. Pulling myself together, I tried to be more objective. I introduced first Patrick, then Martin, and then the TMC's systems.
The polish on her standard issue police boots glistened. The jeans were impeccably ironed, with a perfect fold down the middle of each leg. The belt buckle winked at me as it caught the light. I have always wondered how they manage to put that kind of finish on. If I tried that, I would do more damage than good.
The gun, tightly wrapped in its holster, looked big enough to shoot elephants with. If she was capable of using that, she must be hiding a fair-sized set of muscles.
Whoa. I slapped myself mentally Here I go again. Back to business.
Nys quickly introduced himself, then scurried back to his crisis meeting, apparently relieved someone else was giving orders for a change.
Maria tossed her black mane before speaking. Momentarily distracted by the glint of her hair as it caught a ray of light, I dragged my eyes back to hers. Her nostrils flared in anger, and I lost myself in her lovely pale blue eyes.
If looks could kill, and so forth. Only when her eyes became slits did I finally realise something; I had missed everything she had said. Feeling like a stupid teenager, I smiled nervously and muttered, "I'm sorry, could you say that again, please?" Well done, Hugh, that's the way to impress her.
"I said, can I see the OPA mail, please?"
Regaining my composure as best I could, I mumbled a response. "Why, certainly."
Silently, she read through the message, raised her eyebrows, then read it again as if she had missed something.
"This bit," she said, tapping the postscript lightly with her finger, "how closely does it fit the state of the city?"
"Perfectly. At this juncture, most commuters must be aware that something is wrong. People in the P&Rs will know that the trains are not running, the people at the crossroads will have witnessed the accidents, and anyone trying to park will have seen the wreckage of the car-park lifts. And if I get the point of your question, I doubt whether anyone would be able to piece everything together just yet."
Maria nodded gravely. "So, for you, the OPA displayed their detailed knowledge of the current situation to prove that they instigated it?"
"Absolutely."
"Thank you."
A phone rang, and Martin answered it quietly. Maria glanced at him, then turned to me. "Is there anywhere quieter for me to make a call?"
***
I brought two coffees into the smoking room. On the table were several used cups and a spoon. Already half full of cigarette stubs, the cheap metal ashtray was surrounded by loose ash, left by careless smokers. Standing by the window, I lit a cigarette. Maria sat down next to her steaming coffee, pulled out her GSM and was about to dial, when it rang.
"Maria Depage speaking." She answered in French, stiffening imperceptibly as she listened. "Yes, sir. The TMC was e-mailed, as well. Same wording, same postscript. Why did they send the mail here? Well, who better to validate their claims?" She strained to listen to the next question. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that, Sir. Why send an e-mail in the first place? I suppose to protect their identity. With a phone call, we would probably be able to make a voice-pattern match or use the background noise to get a fix on the location." Again she paused. "Yes, I've just done that. The OPA did plan this, and wanted us to know it, Sir. I'll need Ron here as soon as you locate him. I can't seem to reach him on his GSM."
She put the phone down, then her eyes swivelled to look at me. Embarrassed, I turned away to stare out of the window. A quiet chuckle brought my attention back to her. Her smile was enchanting, and the single dimple in her left cheek gave her an air of innocence. With her head tilted to one side, she seemed to be studying me.
"That was my boss." She had switched back to English for my benefit. "He told me the Bourgmestre has already been in touch with him. The mail you received from the OPA was a copy of the one sent to City Hall. It appears the Bourgmestre is very worried, and she doesn't know what to do."
"Who does? You?"
She sighed. "Not on my own, no. But I just happen to be the liaison officer between the city police force and the anti-terrorist squads."
"What do you mean, just happen to be?"
There was that beautiful smile again. For the second time, my mind wandered. It was getting confusing, though. My thoughts switched too frequently between the gridlock of the city and other less relevant thoughts.
"You don't honestly think it's a coincidence I came here, do you? You spoke about a possible terrorist threat when you first called us. As liaison officer, I am the most qualified to ascertain the danger of a terrorist threat."
"So, you've heard of the Oppressed People's Army, then?"
"Yes."
"Great. And will you be sharing any information with us? Or is it classified?"
"We're not in the army, you know. We will need all the help you and your colleagues can give us. We may know the OPA, but you and the rest of the TMC know the city and all the transport systems. Even better, you monitor the network and can detect changes. For you to be able to help us properly, we will need your input to determine the reasons the OPA is doing this. If you don't know who or what the OPA is, you won't be much help."
Nodding solemnly, I said, "I'm sorry. It's been a hard day, and I've got a nasty feeling it's going to be a long one, too."
We probably had some time before us. The decision-makers would be wracking their brains, trying to find ways of containing or counteracting the possible threat of the terrorists. Here, however, there was little to do until the disk arrived.
The stillness that ensued disturbed me imperceptibly. Why? It's rare to find someone to share comfortable silences with, so I shouldn't
be surprised. That was something I had loved about Sarah. Many an evening we had spent, enjoying each other's company without a word uttered.
For some reason, I had the feeling that the silence between Maria and myself should be like that. Still, it bothered me. There must be another cause for my disquiet. The urge to break the spell was growing, pushing me to speak.
In an attempt to understand what was happening, I recalled the earlier part of the conversation. It didn't help at all, but it did reinforce the growing need to learn more about her. Despite my innate skill at judging people's competence, determining their motivations in personal matters had never been my forte.
Ignoring my half-baked qualms, I decided to continue the conversation. "Maria?"
She looked up, a questioning expression on her face. "Yes?"
"Tell me something. How come your English is as good as your French?"
A frown creased her forehead, and she squinted at me. Then her gaze dropped. She took a deep breath and licked her lips with a delicate flick of the tongue. I wish she would stop doing things like that; it put me off. Or maybe I should force myself to stop noticing.
"I did my higher education in England."
"Really? Where?"
"Durham University."
"Yes? I know of it. I come from York, which isn't all that far away. I've been several times to Durham. Nice cathedral they have."
Maria nodded thoughtfully, then looked at me sideways. "You are English? Your French is good for an Englishman. Most of your compatriots cannot speak any other language."
"Too true."
"So, why are you here in Belgium?"
"Well, my father worked for a big road haulage company which was trying to expand its business into Europe. They set up the new European distribution centre in Brussels, and offered my father the top job. I was about eleven at the time we moved. I went to school here, and learnt French with my friends and classmates."
Maria laughed again. "And in a certain sense, you are following in your father's footsteps."
"What do you mean?"
"Your father ran a transport distribution centre; you work for the Transport Authority. They are not totally dissimilar jobs."
Roadworks Page 9
